But Lullabies Go On and On
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: Set after the Cobbs' time in limbo, Phillipa wants a story about how her mother used to be. Arthur obliges.


Disclaimer: I do not own Inception, its concepts or its characters. I do not own the Billy Joel song "Lullaby", either.

Note: Fangirl though I may be, I'm not down with turning characters on their asses just to make them more appealing. Arthur can handle himself in the movie and I want to stay true to that in fanfic. But with that said, I like the idea that before Mal's death, a younger Arthur was a big part of the Cobb family, and I _really_ like the idea that Mal was someone he let enter his shell. I hope that in this story I've done a decent job of portraying that without going out of character.

_But Lullabies Go On and On_

Even now, stepping onto this property made him feel like he had surfaced from deep underwater and could finally exhale. Arthur knew that the last few months hadn't been easy on the Cobbs- knew that he couldn't understand just how hard they had even been- but for Arthur himself this house was still the closest thing he'd had to home for a long time.

Not that he, or Cobb, would ever have said anything to that effect.

On the porch, he slipped out of his loafers and rang the bell, then stood contentedly waiting to be let in. He could feel the warm, grainy wood through his socks, and breathed in deeply as the breeze blew off the nearby lake. Soon there was a flurry of footsteps on the other side of the door: a man's heavy shoes followed by the rush of two children's bare feet. Locks unlocked, and the door swung open.

Cobb looked tired; he had looked tired from the day that Arthur had met him, but recently it had been worse. He smiled though, and stepped back to let Arthur in.

He didn't even have time to greet everyone properly before Phillipa was in his arms. She hugged him tightly, her blonde curls tickling his face, then squirmed to be let down. She grabbed James hand, dragged him over, and pointed up at Arthur. "Uncle Arthur," she told him excitedly. "Say it, say it!" James only gurgled happily and raised his arms to be picked up as well.

Cobb watched the whole scene from a safe distance, like he always did at first. Arthur knew it was strange to him, having his worlds collide like this, no matter how many times it had happened before. Arthur, however, prided himself on easily adapting to any situation, including the domestic. Secretly, he also loved how much the kids, especially Phillipa, loved him. God knew, he would never be a father himself, and now… well, now nieces and nephews were never going to happen either. But the Cobb children didn't seem to mind filling in.

"Thanks for doing this, Arthur," Cobb said, breaking out of his funk and extending his hand. Arthur shifted James onto his hip to shake.

"Of course."

"Nothing's changed," Cobb told him; he meant, of course, that the general schedule of dinner and bedtime was the same as it had been the last time Arthur had watched the kids. But truthfully, since then, everything _had_ changed. But standing in the comfortably decorated hallway, with two of his favorite people in the world chattering over his arrival, he decided not to dwell on that.

"You won't have to stay the night after all," Cobb went on. "Genevieve's plane lands at ten, so she should be here by midnight or so. You can if you want to, of course," he added, causing Phillipa to pounce on her father and squeal.

"Make him stay!" She cried. "Arthur and Grandma! Arthur and Grandma!" That brought a genuine smile to Cobb's face. Arthur laughed.

"I'll stay the night. She'll be tired anyway." Tired, tired, tired. Everyone was tired lately, even Arthur himself. He didn't ask why Cobb's mother-in-law was flying in for a visit half a day after she was needed to watch the children. Tiredness was making everyone forgetful as well.

"Thanks," Cobb said, and Arthur could tell how deeply he meant it. "I'm out the door." They revolved, Arthur stepping deeper into the house while Cobb stepped farther away. He turned, had his hand on the knob.

"Cobb," Arthur said. Cobb turned back. _You look like shit_, he meant to say, but it came out, "you look good."

Cobb nodded. "Thanks."

"How is she?"

Cobb shook his head and left.

* * *

The night went smoothly, which Arthur had come to expect. The first time that he'd watched Phillipa, years ago, he'd spent the entire afternoon tenser than he was during a job, just waiting for something to go wrong. But it never had. Phillipa and James were fantastic kids, cheerful and well behaved. They had done puzzles, eaten chicken nuggets for dinner, and had then curled up on the couch to watch a movie. Arthur had timed it perfectly to end just as the children were to be going to bed, and it had worked beautifully. Their teeth had already been brushed; Phillipa yawned as the credits rolled, and James was already half asleep on Arthur's chest. He was satisfied; bedtime was the only thing that the Cobb children had ever put up any sort of fuss about.

"Okay," he said cautiously, clicking the television off. "Time for bed."

Immediately Phillipa sat up straighter. "I wanna stay up for Grandma," she whined.

"You'll see her as soon as you wake up in the morning," Arthur reasoned.

"I wanna see her _tonight_," Phillipa insisted. "Please, Uncle Arthur, _please_."

With her blonde hair and pleading voice, she was going to break hearts one day.

"Okay," he relented immediately. Mal called him her "big, bad Point Man", but around Phillipa he was a total pushover. "I'm gonna put James in his room, though." He got to his feet easily despite the dead weight of the sleeping toddler. After checking his diaper, he tucked him securely into bed.

When Arthur got back to the television room, Phillipa was curled up on the armchair. Immediately he could sense the difference in her. There was a small pout on her face, and her arms were wrapped around her chest.

Arthur crossed the room in an instant and knelt down beside her. "Phils? What is it?"

"I want _Maman_," she said quietly.

"Phillipa, what's wrong?"

"My tummy hurts," she replied, burying her face in Arthur's neck. Arthur pulled her back far enough to feel her forehead, but she was cool. He doubted that she was getting sick, anyway; for the last few months, saying that she had a stomachache had been Phillipa's favorite way of garnering attention.

"Do you want me to make you some tea?"

She shook her head.

"Then what do you want?" he asked gently.

"Story."

"A story about what?"

"'bout _Maman_. Old _Maman_."

Arthur didn't consider himself an emotional man- not by a long shot. But at Phillipa's plaintively simple request, for a story about how her mother used to be, his chest seized up without warning and he had to cough before he could breathe again. He knew that Phillipa had been sponging up all the negativity in the Cobb household lately, but he had no idea that she was that well in tune- well enough that she missed her old mother, well enough that she could feel that Mal simply wasn't Mal anymore.

But the kicker of the situation was just how many stories Arthur could come up with about her being a wonderful mother- to him. Twenty-two when he'd been recruited by Cobb, Arthur had been little more than a skinny bookworm trailed like ghosts by family money and family problems. It had taken a while, a few months maybe, before he and Dom reached the level of spending time together outside of work. But the moment he'd brought Arthur home, Dom's wife had simply pounced on him.

He had dozens of stories, funny and sad. There was Mal teaching him pick-up lines in French; Mal making him some sort of alcohol-flavored cake for his twenty-fourth birthday; Mal dragging him to the mall and showing him how to dress like a "big boy," as she had put it.

Mal helping him choose his totem.

Mal staying on the phone with him after he'd woken up from yet another nightmare, waiting patiently for him to drift back to sleep.

Mal holding him, stroking his hair as he sobbed, all the way through til dawn on the night that his brother had died.

It wasn't fair.

"Do you know why I thought you might want tea?" Arthur whispered to her, inspiration striking. Phillipa shook her head. He stood, picked her up, then settled down into the chair with her on his lap.

"One time," he began. "Your dad and I were working. And when we got done, I had a tummyache too…"

* * *

The kick came unexpectedly, and Arthur woke slightly confused. Hands were on his shoulders, hands that he recognized as Mal's; he tried to ask her what had happened, but no sound came out.

"Good call," he heard Cobb's voice say distantly.

"Get rid of the rest of it," Mal said, in reply.

_Mal_, Arthur tried to say. It came out a groan.

The hands disappeared from his shoulders and Mal stepped around the chair and kneeled in front of him. With one hand, she felt his forehead; with the other she stroked his arm. "Just breathe, darling," she told him, and Arthur did, despite the painful weight on his chest. He never had been able to refuse Mal; no one had.

Cobb's heavy footsteps returned. "How is he?"

"Still shaking, but his heart rate is going down."

Instinctively, Arthur tried to protest the notion that he was shaking; but when he focused his eyes long enough to actually look down at himself, he found it was true. His body was trembling, and whenever Mal touched his skin, he could feel that it was slick with sweat. The world felt skewed somehow, and he tried to ask about it, but Mal hushed him.

"There was a bad reaction to the sedative this time," she told him gently. "We woke you early. Close your eyes and breathe." To Cobb, she added, "see to the children. I will explain things to Arthur."

Arthur knew what Mal was doing: sending her husband away so that he wouldn't see his Point Man in such a state. Distantly, he was grateful, but still frustrated that he was in such a state to begin with.

Mal let him be for a few minutes, during which time his head cleared and the tremors that had been wracking his body lessened, though they didn't stop completely. When he felt that he could, Arthur opened his eyes and sat forward in the chair.

"Slowly," Mal cautioned. "I have known these reactions to cause severe nausea."

Without replying, Arthur took account of his body; he didn't feel sick, exactly, but maybe like he'd drank too much water on an empty stomach. "I've never had a bad reaction before," he grumbled. Even though it was only Mal, who had been more of a mother to him in recent years than his own mother ever had, he still didn't like feeling weak in anyone's presence. He didn't like feeling weak at all. And it was true, this was the first time he'd ever had a negative reaction to any sedative.

"Well. That's why we test them." Mal winked. "How is your stomach?"

"All right," Arthur lied. Truthfully, as the rest of him felt better, his stomach felt worse by the second. It had seemed sensible at the time to test sedatives at the Cobb house rather than in their lab, which was pathetically funded and even more pathetically uncomfortable. Now all he could think of was how humiliating it would be to end up sick in the Cobbs' bathroom.

Well aware of Mal's scrutinizing eyes, he shifted in the chair. How anyone could actually enjoy the feeling of not being on control of their own body… it was beyond him.

"One time, Dom," Mal confided. "He was so sick from a bad reaction, he did not eat for three days."

"Did you ever have a bad reaction?" Arthur asked, his voice sounding gruff even to his own ears. From Mal's sweet smile, he knew that she hadn't.

"I know you don't like to hear this, darling, but you are human."

"I never said otherwise."

Mal frowned, furrowing her brow and sticking out her lips. At first Arthur thought she was growing frustrated. Then he realized that she was imitating him. "I do not get sick," she insisted. "You are mistaken."

Despite himself, Arthur smiled. Mal knew his story; she knew how much control meant to him. She simply didn't let it stop her.

"Wait here," she ordered, pushing herself to her feet. "I will make you tea."

"Oh, no, that's really all right," Arthur protested, but Mal was gone. He winced. He didn't want to be rude, but he also didn't think that he could stomach anything just then, not even tea. He perched on the edge of his seat, head heavily in his hands, breathing deeply to keep the nausea back.

Mal returned so quickly that Arthur wondered if he'd drifted off for a moment. A mug and a plate were shoved insistently into his lap.

"Ginger tea and toast," Mal announced.

Arthur's stomach clenched. "Really, Mal"-

"Really, Arthur," she said, and wouldn't let him hand them back. "Don't you trust me?"

"Yes, but"-

"No buts. At least half a slice. You will feel better, I promise you."

Arthur looked down at the food- in his discomfort, the textures and colors, though bland, seemed all the more defined- and back up at Mal, who was pursing her lips expectantly.

So Arthur ate his toast, and drank his tea, with Mal perched contently on the arm of the chair. And despite the worrisome feeling of the first few bites, he did slowly begin to feel better. The tension of sickness drained away, and Arthur felt that he could breathe again.

Mal was gloating. "You see?" She smiled. Arthur laughed as he shook his head. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better, thank you."

"Tired?"

"No."

"Liar," Mal accused. "Your eyes are droopy. I can always tell with you, Arthur."

He hated to admit that she was right, but the moment his stomach had stopped bothering him, an overpowering exhaustion had begun creeping in on the edges of his consciousness. It was as though the discomfort had been the only thing keeping him alert. It wasn't surprising, either; with all the sedatives they'd been testing, it had been a full few days since Arthur had experienced any real sleep.

"I will get you a blanket," she announced. And she did, stealing it from the nearby sofa, and kicking the chair's ottoman beneath his feet before spreading it over him.

"You don't have to mother me, Mal," Arthur told her as she sat again on the arm of his chair. He wasn't protesting so much as stating the fact.

"Maybe I like to," she replied calmly, smoothing the brown wool of the blanket over his chest.

"Why?"

Mal's hands stopped where they were, and she slowly withdrew them back to her sides. A genuine sadness had washed over her pretty face, alarming Arthur. "Someday," she said quietly, "you will need to ask yourself: why can nobody take care of you? Someday you will need to ask yourself what you are holding onto so tightly, Arthur."

He couldn't think of any real reply to that, especially since, under a blanket with his feet up, it was becoming harder and harder for him to stay awake.

"I don't know," he murmured.

"I know," Mal replied gently. "Someday, I said; it does not mean today. For today, you sleep. And when you wake, I will make you more tea."

* * *

"Your mother was a beautiful woman," Arthur concluded quietly. He'd lost himself in the story towards to end, he knew, but thought that he'd still managed to edit it for content. Really, if you ignored the circumstances, it was a perfectly pleasant moment, and a treasured memory. Years later, he still made himself ginger tea when he wasn't feeling well; years later, it was still a way for him to remember Mal.

It was a memory that it seemed Phillipa would never have.

"Did she sing you a song?" Phillipa asked quietly. Her eyes were closed, and Arthur had written her off as sleeping minutes ago. But she stirred soon after he stopped talking.

"Of course," he lied. Actually, Mal, despite her maternal qualities, was much more likely to give you a pinch than a hug, much more likely to tell a joke than sing a song. But it seemed like what Phillipa wanted to hear.

"Sing," Phillipa commanded.

Whoops.

Arthur knew only one lullaby, not from Mal or even his own childhood; rather he had learned it in high school on the off chance that it might one day impress a girl. He wasn't sure if Billy Joel was exactly in Mal's repertoire, but it was all he had.

"Goodnight my angel," he began, "time to close your eyes." His singing voice had never been very good, and tonight it was hoarse from use as well as flat. At first he thought that this was why Phillipa raised her tiny hand and smacked him.

"No, no," she insisted, then added, "_En français_, Arthur."

Arthur knew one song and one song only in French. It would have to do.

"_Frère Jacques, frère Jacques, dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?_" Phillipa squirmed happily and thumped her hand on his chest in time with the bell noises.

"Ding dang dong," she repeated quietly. Then she yawned.

"How's your tummy?" Arthur asked.

"Good."

"Can I put you in bed now?"

She shook her head against his chest, but even as she did, he could feel her movements slowing.

"Can I tuck you in out here then?"

Phillipa hesitated, then nodded her assent.

Arthur stood, placed Phillipa back in the chair, then took the blanket off the nearby sofa to spread over her. The fabric felt familiar under his fingers: brown wool. He sighed, fighting against the sadness that had been slowly rising in him all night.

Phillipa curled tightly into a ball the moment she had the chair to herself, pillowing her head on the arm of it, her eyes closed immediately. Arthur knelt down beside her.

"Will you stay, Arthur?" she asked sleepily.

"Of course. I'll be right on the sofa over there."

"Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"I hope Daddy and _Maman_ are having a good anniversary."

"Me too, sweetie," Arthur agreed, smoothing Phillipa's curls back from her forehead. _I think they really need it. We all do._


End file.
